"Nevertheless, Messrs. Screw and Scratch doubt me. Here is their letter--the last one. Will you look at it?" and Claudius took an envelope from his pocket-book. He was glad to have come over to the argumentative tack, for his heart was very sore, and he knew what the end must be.
"No." The Countess turned to him for the first time, with an indescribable look in her face, between anger and pain. "No, I will not read it."
"I wish you would," said Claudius, "you would understand better." Something in his voice touched a sympathetic chord.
"I think I understand," said the Countess, looking back at the sea, which was growing dim and indistinct before her. "I think you ought to go."
The indistinctness of her vision was not due to any defect in her sight. The wet fog was rising like a shapeless evil genius out of the sluggish sea, rolling heavily across the little bay to the lovers' beach, with its swollen arms full of blight and mildew. Margaret shivered at the sight of it, and drew the lace thing she wore closer to her throat. But she did not rise, or make any sign that she would go.
"What is the other reason for your going?" she asked at length.
"You said your inheritance, or the evidence you require in order to obtain it, was one of the principal reasons for your going. I suppose there is another?"
"Yes, Countess, there is another reason, but I cannot tell you now what it is."
"I have no right to ask, of course," said Margaret,--"unless I can help you," she added, in her soft, deep voice.
"You have more right than you think, far more right," answered Claudius. "And I thank you for the kind thought of help. It is very good of you." He turned towards her, and leaned upon his hand as he sat. Still the fog rolled up, and the lifeless sea seemed overshed with an unctuous calm. They were almost in the dark on their strip of beach, and the moisture was already clinging in great, thick drops to their clothes, and to the rocks where they sat. Still Claudius looked at Margaret, and Margaret looked at the narrow band of oily water still uncovered by the mist.
"When are you going?" she asked slowly, as if hating to meet the answer.
"To-night," said Claudius, still looking earnestly at her. The light was gone from her eyes, and the flush had long sunk away to the heart whence it had come.